


my world is only you

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love, Punk Rock AU, Romance, Sad, and so is bill, band au, past twelve/river and danny/clara, twelve is clara's biggest fan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 20:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: She’s the rockstar the world can’t stop talking about and he’s a physics professor who collects ticket stubs in a journal he keeps under his mattress. They’re not meant to be together, not really, but its funny what music can do. (twelve x clara punkrock au. things don’t stay easy forever.)





	my world is only you

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHH. i sort of hate this. but i'm going with it. partly inspired by a tweet and by wonderful tumblr user twelveclara's punk rock au 'but we're so happy'. hope you enjoy + feedback is always nice. :)

He’s been a fan of hers for a while now, but that’s not unusual. He’s a fan of a lot of bands – his flat is overflowing with CDs, vinyl, cassettes, anything he can get his hands on, really. He often finds himself at concerts. He collects ticket stubs in a little journal he keeps down the side of his mattress. Not for any particular reason, he’s not embarrassed or anything, what’s embarrassing about liking music? He just likes to keep what’s special to him close.

He finds out she’s doing a gig from one of the students in his astrophysics tutorial. Bill Potts with the curly hair and the denim jacket mentions it’s on Saturday, 10pm, at _The Rose and Crown._ It’s the kind of bar that’s usually full to the brim with students so it’s the kind he usually tries to stay away from, sticking to the pubs nearer the centre of town. He figures he’ll make an exception to see her live.

(Fuck—he ends up making a _hell_ of a lot of exceptions for her, in the end.)

When Saturday rolls around he pulls on an old hoodie and his scuffed, black Doc Martens. The night is unusually bitter for the time of year and yes, he’s right, the place is fucking _crammed_ with students. As if he doesn’t get enough of them at work—the last thing he wants is to trip over a nineteen-year-old slumped against a wall after drinking too many jaeger bombs in quick succession. He wonders what made her hire this place, of all of them, to play a gig. She’s hardly scraping by. She could fill venues twice the size, if she wanted to. She’s certainly got a big enough fanbase. A bouncer is already turning away customers trying to buy tickets on the door and she’s not due on for another hour.

The bar, by default, is just as packed as the rest of the club. Three bartenders are working flat out, mixing spirits and lemonade, cracking open bottles of beer stored in a fridge beneath the till. The counter is sticky from spilled drinks but he finds himself drumming his fingers against the wood, the pulse of a bass track thudding straight through him like a second heartbeat. It’s the beginning of an adrenaline rush he can _only_ get from punk rock; something past lovers have never been able to understand about him. Music always comes first. River didn’t always like coming second.

The motion of a presence shuffling next to him prods him out of his nostalgia, but a glimpse of dark, curly hair and a denim jacket affirms its Bill Potts from his first year astrophysics tutorial. She sees him before he has chance to make a run for it—a smile breaks out across her face and he sighs, rolls his eyes, prepares himself for a torrent of social interaction he’d much rather avoid.

“Doctor!” she exclaims, swaying on the balls of her feet. Her shoes are ridiculous and she orders a vodka and coke. “Didn’t expect to see you here! Fan of _Oswin and the Oswalds,_ are ya?”

That’s frankly rather a stupid question for rather a bright girl—Bill is the only student in his class who he’s _ever_ given a first to, and he’s stingy as hell with grading, so that’s a difficult feat to reach. He waves a hand. “Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Bill doesn’t seem to notice his bluntness and if she does, she annoyingly manages to brush it off. “Clara Oswald is _amazing_ live, by the way. Like, I’ve seen her _so_ many times. Even met her once in London. Look—“ Bill, for some reason, is showing him the camera roll on her iPhone, which is full of mostly selfies of her with a blonde girl he vaguely recognises. Her thumb eventually hovers over a particular photo: its outside a club somewhere, the contrast slightly blurry, but he identifies the pair immediately. It’s Bill, her arm round someone nearly half a foot shorter than she is—brown, wavy hair cropped at her shoulders and small turned-up nose, instantly attractive in the way all rockstars are. Her smile is arrogant, somehow, but it makes her all the more unobtainably beautiful.

“She was so nice, too,” Bill scrolls through another couple of photos and for once, he finds himself paying attention to what one of his student’s is saying. “Heather thought she’d be a bit of a diva, but she’s actually really down to earth. Her security kept urging her to leave but she wouldn’t until we’d had a photo.”

It strikes him then that he’s never thought of Clara Oswald as an actual _person,_ a human being with blood and a brain and a heart, who has friends and family and fans she cares about. The bands he likes have always been entities to him, their sound more real than their bodies; they’ve only ever been capable of making music. Even at concerts, he’s never connected vocals with a personality. He enjoys chords and lyrics and the way a great song can make you feel, like every inch of your body is on fire and _alive._ But he forgets the life behind the anthems—but, surely, the anthems need _life_ to be written in the first place?

Bill’s phone vibrates with a text message and he feels nauseous as he glimpses a string of emojis. Fine, technology advancing is a good thing, he can definitely vouch for that; but one of his fucking _final year_ students signed off an email with a crying face yesterday and he was ready to launch his laptop out the office window. Bill taps out a reply, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip in a bashful smile—it’s probably the blonde girl that takes up half her camera roll.

“I’ve got to go,” Bill says, at fucking last, “Maybe I’ll catch you in the mosh pit later?”

He narrows his eyes, but Bill’s grinning. “I don’t think so.”

She turns on a laugh and is quickly swallowed by the crowd, some of them wearing _Oswin and the Oswalds_ merch with their skinny jeans, and surprisingly some of them are closer to his age. There’s no age barrier when it comes to good music: he’s been to Glastonbury every year since 1982 and he never plans on stopping, if that’s possible. He could be one-hundred-and-two and crippled with arthritis but he’d still somehow make it to gigs.

The bartender slides him a desperado just as the lights go dark and the club fizzes with energy, like the rumble of thunder before a rainstorm, clouds collecting together and turning black. Every part of his body is urging him to get closer to the stage and he somehow manages to slip through the masses to the other side of the bar, clambering on to a free barstool a few feet away from the front. Usually, he’d be right in the centre, but he’d been unable to drag Missy along with him— _I’ve got much better things to do than hang out with you, what do you take me for?_ —and there’s way too many Young People he could bump into in the science faculty to make a fuss. He settles with the stool for now, and he’s right near the speaker, which is always the second best place to be.

A cheer erupts from the floor, the squeals deafening, as the band emerges from backstage. Amy Pond—young, redhaired, almost as Scottish as he is—takes her place at the drum kit, hands clutching her sticks as she throws her arms in the air. Rory Williams is the shy, demure one on keys. He pays enough attention to the shitty tabloids displayed in the shop at the Student’s Union to know the two of them are together, and it’s only more prevalent as Rory flashes Amy a reassuring smile, a wish _good luck._ Rose Tyler makes up the rest of the backing band. Bottle blonde and breathtaking, she clutches the bass, tongue-in-cheek grin.

But she’s nothing, they’re all nothing, compared to _her._

There’s no words to describe the room when Clara takes place at centre stage, electric guitar in her hands, microphone propped against her lips. Her scarlet-lipstick smile as she takes in (breathes in) the crowd is enough to set his heart on fire: her miniskirt is made from leather and a loose fitting white top hangs off her shoulders, brown eyes framed with charcoal black eyeliner.

(No woman, not ever, has made him feel like this—he’s not usually affected by conventional notions of beauty, but her beauty is anything but conventional. It’s _ethereal,_ like she’s not even mortal, like she shouldn’t even exist in the same world as everyone else. He’s a physicist. He understands the mechanics behind timelines and alternative universes, and wonders what kind of force allowed her to exist at the same time as him. He’s never believed in a God or higher power [religion is reserved for those who can’t or won’t understand science] but watching her, well, part of him is prepared to be converted.)

“Good evening Bristol!” she says, her voice right by his head, “We’re Oswin and the Oswalds—this is _Trenzalore._ ”

Rose Tyler begins to strum the deep, opening chords of their latest hit single and the crowd goes wild, but his eyes are solely on her. He even forgets where he is for a moment or two—her guitar is an extra limb, she’s incomplete without it, and he’s _enthralled._

And this is all before she even begins to sing. As soon as she opens her mouth the breath is knocked out his lungs: he’s listened to all her tracks on iTunes countless times but _fuck,_ it’s nothing compared to hearing her live. Her tone is rich, dark, sultry, deliciously sexy, hauntingly beautiful. He can taste red wine, bitter and unforgiving on his tongue. The crowd is as captivated as he is, apparently, jaws dropping and elated smiles on every face he can make out in the darkness. She certainly knows how to move an audience.

_I don’t want this night to end_

_But if it has to I’d rather end it with you_

For most of the song, her eyes are screwed tightly shut, like opening them would be a betrayal to the emotion she puts in her music. But there are seconds where her brown irises burn bright in the spotlight, and he _swears_ to God that she’s looking straight at him. He blinks back, blankly, because that’s impossible. Those spotlights are blinding. He’d performed in bands during his undergraduate days and he remembers the encompassing heat of centre stage, the inability to make out a single face in a crowd of hundreds. And why—if she could—why would she even bother with _him?_

Amy Pond rolls triumphantly on the snare as the last chorus fades out, Clara’s small hands coming to a standstill on a final D Major chord. A breath he never knew he was holding leaves his body, his pulse flickering. Not for the first time in his life he wants everything just to stop—he’s fucking sick of hours, minutes, seconds, how quickly they seem to pass him by. Maybe the next big step in his academic career would be to build a time machine. Not for anything destructive or detrimental, or really anything useful. He’d build one just to relive these sorts of moments over and over and over again.

(I keep thinking about the night we met and yes, it was the best night of my life. But my life had been shit up until that point so don’t you let that get to your pretty little head of yours.

_Well, it was the best night of my life too. And your ego is much bigger than mine, so it should be me warning you about not letting it get to your head._

Ah, yes. Probably.)

He orders another desperado. Waits for another perfect storm.

-x-

The gig ends at about midnight and he’s never found more difficulty in accepting the inevitable. He trails outside a few minutes after most of the club has left, mostly students in various states of drunkenness. Bill Potts from his astrophysics tutorial has a blonde girl on her arm and she kisses her softly, deeply, by the fire exit doors. Jesus. It’s been a hell of a long time since he’s had anything like that in his life.

(It shouldn’t ache like it does, because it’s been _decades_ since his heady student days of one night stands and lazy fucks in inappropriate places, but River Song fucked him up more than he’ll ever care to admit out loud. It was his fault; he knows more that more than anything. But River knew that more than anything too and never let him forget it.)

The late autumn rain starts drizzling as soon as the club doors shut, so he pulls up his hood and hovers beneath a shade still propped up at the café next-door. A drumbeat still thumps at the back of his brain—the chorus of their last song, _Listen,_ is like some sort of contagious virus that refuses to burn out and die, not that he wants it to. He’d trade up all his favourite bands just to have her voice on a loop in his head. He pulls a cigarette out the pocket of his jacket, clamps it between his lips, watches as the spark flickers in the damp air. He’s not expecting company.

“Sorry—can I borrow a light?” And he recognises that voice, that soft Northern accent—

\--and it’s her, bloody hell, it’s her. It’s actually her. He can’t help it. He’s openly staring, like her simply existing is an impossibility. Of course she notices it; her mouth curls into that arrogant grin seen in Bill Potts’ grainy photograph.

“Mouth closed, dear,” she says, “I’d quite like a cigarette, if that’s okay with you, but my lighter is wholeheartedly fucked.”

He self-consciously locks shut his gaping jaw. Since when did he get _starstruck_ like a teenager? Frankly, it’s embarrassing, and in the days to come he’ll flat-out deny it ever happened. Somehow, he manages to string together enough vowels and consonants to form coherent words. “Fine. But you shouldn’t. It’ll ruin that voice of yours.”

More sparks flicker into the dark and she takes a drag, long and decadently impressive. They should never use her for anti-smoking adverts; it’s enough to convince anyone to take up the habit. “Neither should you.”

“I’m not a singer, darlin’. Besides, it’s probably a bit late for me.”

“Don’t call me darling,” she says, sweetly, smiling innocently, “And nonsense. It’s never too late. Ironically, that was my exact attitude towards smoking in the first place. Only started about a year ago.”

Watching her smoke is almost as hypnotic as watching her sing, like the world has come to a standstill around her. The city could burn down in their shadows and he wouldn’t notice, not even when everything he’s ever known is ashes collecting in the dust around his feet. He’s right. She’s _unreal._

“Kick it while you have the chance,” he drops his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot, “Trust me. An addiction is difficult to shift.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Have you even tried to give it up?”

River used to nag him about it, way back when. She’d always been more reckless than him in more ways than one, but not like this. He was too fucking stubborn to even consider what she asked of him. “No.”

“Well then. If you stop—or at least _try_ to—I’ll stop too.”

It’s an interesting deal. A result of a conversation he’d never pictured happening this evening. He smirks, eyes narrowing slightly, and shrugs his shoulders. “Sure, if you want a challenge.”

“Oh, I _love_ a challenge.”

“Great—one problem, though. How will I know?”

Clara snuffs out her cigarette under the heel of her ankle boots. The rain is starting to settle, the clouds parting in the midnight sky to reveal pinpricks of white light. “We’ll have to keep in contact then, won’t we?”

Oh. _Oh._ He’s not—she’s smiling up at him, tongue poking out between her teeth, unreachable. She’s fucking _Clara Oswald,_ the rockstar that the world won’t stop talking about, and he’s, well… He’s _him._ But they’ve shared a cigarette and maybe she _did_ look at him through all that crowd, and maybe this isn’t that impossible.

“That makes sense,” he says, and she nods, pleased with her apparent resourcefulness and logic. “Do you have a phone number?”

-x-

She ends up dragging him to a bar open late in the back end of Bristol. Of course, just a glance at her face gets them free entry as well as free drinks for the rest of the night. She’s drinking tequila and it’s not something he usually indulges in, but why the hell not? He can pretend to be someone else tonight.

“Shouldn’t you be with your band?” he asks. They’ve grabbed a booth at the back behind an exposed brick wall, hidden from view and the people chatting around them. She sits opposite him, chin propped up on her palm. A row of silver earrings hooped round her lobe keep catching the light.

“I’m not surgically attached to them,” Clara raises her voice over the music, “Once the shows over I can do what I want.”

“Like what, for instance?”

Her brows furrow inquisitively, almost like she’s never been asked that question before. “Anything. Once I took a ferry over to Amsterdam. Not sure what happened when I got there, mind you, but I ended up in Edinburgh on time for my next gig.” A pause. “I’ve said enough about what I get up to. What’s your day job?”

He could listen to her talk for hours, which is unusual for him. He rarely has the time or patience for conversation without an apparent goal or purpose. It’s why he likes lecturing so much; it’s just speaking into mid-air, his voice and his voice alone, rarely interrupted unless some speccy moron on the front row has a burning question they can’t keep for a seminar. When he’s talking about space he’s like an uncorked bottle of champagne, supernovas and black holes and comets pouring out of his mouth like he has no way of controlling it.

Her eyes are wide and animated, like an animal from an old Disney cartoon. They’re almost too big for her face. “I’m a lecturer. St Luke’s.”

She pouts, leans in closer. “Oh. An academic. I’ve met all too many of those. What’s your discipline?”

“Physics, but specialising in astrophysics,” he says, “What do you mean—all too many?”

She grins—bloody _hell_ —her front teeth biting her bottom lip. “In the sense that all my past boyfriends have been academics. Last one was a mathematician. Kind enough, pretty, but not really my type. Bless.”

He wants to query what exactly _her type_ consists of, but it’s way too early to be asking those sorts of questions. “We make terrible partners. Horrific commitment issues, mostly, which is odd considering we’ve chosen to study one subject area for the rest of our lives.”

She hums contemplatively and seems to zone out for a second. “If anything, he was _too_ committed.” Her eyes swim back into focus. “And besides, you’re talking to a musician. We practically invented the phrase _commitment issues._ I have to tour, visit new places, or I get bored. Left home as soon as I could, if it ever really was _home_ anyway. Speaking of home… What is that accent? Glaswegian?”

“Indeed,” he says, “And… I understand what you mean. About it never really being home. Don’t think I’ve found mine yet, either.”

It’s more than he’s ever admitted to anyone, this undying feeling of never quite fitting in, never finding a place he’s _really_ wanted to go back to. Bristol is one of many cities he’s tried to make his own—it’s been years and it still doesn’t feel right. She blinks, blue light sweeping over her cheekbones. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting a confession. “We make quite a pair.”

He nudges her glass with his own. “I’ll drink to that.”

Silence lulls over them, penetrated by the thump of a distant bass line. Her fingernails are scarlet red, matching her lipstick; well, she is the colour red personified, vibrant and fiery and definitely dangerous. Or, from a physicists point of view—she’s a centre of gravity, pulling him hopelessly into her orbit. And all they’ve done is shared a drink and a cigarette. _Get a grip._

Her phone vibrates with a text on the table and it continues to judder until she picks it up. White light swallows her face and he can see every curve, every edge, the eyelash loose on her cheek. She scowls. “I better head back. We’re driving to Bath early tomorrow and my management are on my _arse_ about it.”

His heart drops right to his stomach. He’s not ready to say goodbye, not yet, not to the first new person he’s met in this town that he’s genuinely found interesting and not just pretended to. “What time is it?”

Another quick scan of her phone causes a laugh to break out across her face. “It’s two forty-nine.”

“You’ll be driving to Bath today, then,” he smirks, “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you, much appreciated.”

Despite it being barely minutes from closing time, the bar is still packed to the rafters with late night revellers, clumsy limbs colliding with anything and everything in sight. She tuts but he makes a point of standing quite close behind her, ready to push away any unwelcome attention. She doesn’t need protecting, she’ll say, but he feels a natural duty of care towards her which he can’t explain away. He just _does._

The early morning air is cool, but it’s a welcome change to the unrelenting body heat permeating from an enclosed space. The smell of beer is no longer clouding all his senses; the crescent moon winks at him above his head and yes, she’s still here, still unfathomably real. She looks even more beautiful bathed in moonlight, like she’s stepped right out of a classical myth. A _punk rock_ classical myth.

“This is when I’d usually have a cigarette,” she admits, shivering. “But I’ll stick to our agreement.”

“You better,” he warns. Pauses. “Where are you staying?”

“Erm—Holiday Inn, Trap Street. You heard of it?”

“Trap Street, yes. It’s fucking miles away.”

She laughs, fully and unabridged, like there’s an abundance of butterflies trapped in her ribcage and they’re threatening to be set free. He finds himself laughing too. It’s impossible not to. “I’m gonna jump in an Uber. We can share one, if you like.”

He grimaces. “Ah, I would, but I’m in the complete opposite direction. I’ll wait with you, though. All sorts wandering round at this time of night.”

“Cute, but I’ll be fine.”

“Trust me, I’d be more than happy to leave you to the clutches of Bristol’s depraved. But if I wake up tomorrow and find out you’ve been murdered on fucking Twitter or something, I’d rather not have that on my conscience.”

“Alright, bloody hell, Mr Darcy,” she grins, “Fine. You can wait with me.”

It’s the first of many times he ends up being her sort-of protector. It means nothing right now, because they’re just two people who met at a concert, even if one of those two people turns out to be a world famous rockstar. But there will come a time when all he wants is to shield her from all the shit this world throws at her, at the both of them. It’s not the drunk and the lost and the misguided of Bristol he needs to protect her from.

It’s him. It’s him. Maybe he’s too harsh on himself and his inability to keep meaningful relationships, but it’s him all the same.

-x-

He wakes up the next morning with a headache and a text notification. His hand lazily grasps around his bedside table for his phone and the white light makes his eyes strain, _fucking tequila._ September sunlight bleeds through the gap in his curtains and for once, it isn’t raining.

 _I didn’t have a cigarette this morning,_ the text reads. _You proud of me?_

A smile cracks through his face to rival the untimely bright weather. _Very proud._

He’s not expecting a reply so quickly so he lies back into his pillow, lets his eyes flicker shut, his mind drift back to a night of music and alcohol and big, unforgettable brown eyes. Perhaps he dreamt about her last night, in the few hours of sleep he’d managed to grab once he unlocked his flat door and fell face-first into bed. It’s hardly a ridiculous concept.

_What about you?_

He lifts his phone off his chest. _No, not yet. But I’ve just woken up._

_Lucky. I’ve not even been to bed._

He smirks. _You truly are living the rockstar lifestyle._

It goes quiet after that—maybe she’s fallen asleep, maybe she’s got something better to do.

-x-

They text quite a lot over the next few days, and it always seems to be her first. She’s got ridiculous working hours—regularly sleeping during the day, a stack of messages in his inbox appearing at 5am—but he doesn’t, so it’s like trying to talk to someone in a different time zone. He subconsciously tries to catch her in the couple of hours before she goes on stage: it’s the only time they’re both awake enough to actually pay attention.

She calls him on the Thursday at around seven, minutes after he lets himself in to his flat after working late, grading dissertations. It catches him off guard—it’s not what they do, not usually. Not that they’ve known each other long enough to justify a routine.

He can’t help but answer with curiosity. “Hello?”

 _“Hello!”_ she replies, brightly, _“Good evening! How are you?”_

He clamps the phone between his shoulder and ear as he drifts through to the kitchen, dropping a bunch of files on the dining table. “Are you genuinely interested or is there an ulterior motive to this call?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end of the line. _“Fine, you got me. I wanted to ask something else, actually. Can you talk?”_

“Sure.” He fills the kettle, waits for it to boil. Tea is his solution to cigarettes. Most of the time it tastes like what it is—wet leaves—but it’s keeping up his side of the bargain and so far, it seems to be working for him. “What can I help you with?”

_“Your university—St Luke’s—it has a Student’s Union with a club, doesn’t it?”_

“Yes,” he says, elongating the ‘e’ to emphasise his intrigue, “I think it’s called _The Basement._ An attempt to attract grungy students who spend too much time in their own, possibly. Why?”

_“I’m going to Birmingham on Tuesday, but there’s a break in the tour schedule this weekend. We’re thinking of bringing the band back to Bristol for a, uh, pop-up gig? Surprise gig? I’m not sure what to call it.”_

He tries to hide the enthusiasm from his tone because she’ll definitely end up using that to his advantage. Despite their recent correspondence—like pen friends, he muses, swapping tips for combatting smoking cravings—he’d never imagined he’d have the opportunity to hear her sing again so quickly. He’s tried to replicate the emotions of last Saturday by watching blurry recordings of gigs on YouTube, live sessions at BBC Radio One, Clara owning the stage at Latitude last year. But nothing can quite compete with the real deal. “You want to come to St Luke’s?”

The smile is unmistakable in her tone. _“Yeah! I had a blast in Bristol last weekend. My manager is trying to sort it out, but hopefully there won’t be any problems.”_ She pauses, like she’s trying hard to find the right words to say next. “ _You’ll be there, won’t you? If we come back.”_

“Well,” he says, pouring water into a mug, “I don’t think I have anything planned for then.”

(That’s the way he’s playing it, apparently. He should be yelling _yes, I’ll be there, of course I’ll be there_ but he’s stubborn and unyielding and reluctant in situations he’s unfamiliar with. He still can’t quite understand why she’s so interested in him, and that uncertainty is only fuelling his eternal fire of _this could all end so, so quickly._ The last time he allowed himself to be purely, unabashedly happy he was left behind in the wake of a woman who always wanted more than he could give. Clara Oswald could realise this, soon, too. It’s best not to instil any expectations.)

 _“Awesome,”_ she breathes, _“I’ll let you know. See ya.”_

-x-

He spends that evening watching a livestream of the _Oswin and the Oswalds_ gig in Oxford on Facebook. She’s wearing that same leather skirt but a different shade of lipstick—burgundy, it looks like, from this angle. He lets her voice wash over him, a fucking blizzard of harmonies and melodies, and wonders if he can ever listen to another band again without comparing them to her.

-x-

“Oh my god—oh my god, Doctor, have you seen this?”

Bill Potts rushes into his office in a whirlwind of neon green Doc Martens and excitable babbling, throwing herself down in the armchair opposite desk before he’s even made the decision to let her in. It’s a confusing disregard of respect for his position, but if he knows anything about the young woman in his astrophysics seminar, she cares little for instated authority. She blurts out her theories about the universe—sometimes a little sci-fi, but her lab reports are intelligently written, so he’ll let her off—with abandon, not really caring what her colleagues think of them.

He retracts a little in his chair and for once, decides to humour her. “Seen what?”

Bill pushes her phone screen towards him. “ _Oswin and the Oswalds_ are doing another gig! Like, _here._ Like, actually here, in the actual _Student’s Union!”_

Oh, so this is the part where he pretends that he doesn’t know anything about this, that he wasn’t up until 3am last night texting the lead singer like a fucking teenager. He glances Bill’s phone screen and feigns a look of mild surprise. “Hm, really?”

Bill stares at him like she can’t understand the lack of enthusiasm in his tone. “Aren’t you excited? I don’t think the band has ever gone back to a place on a tour. I can’t believe we’ll get to see them twice in the same week!”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I suppose.”

Bill retracts her phone slowly, eyes slightly narrowed. She stuffs it in the pocket of her jacket. It’s the same denim one she was wearing last week, the same one she always seems to wear. Students. They never do their bloody laundry, do they? “What’s the deal with you, then?”

That question catches him by surprise. He furrows his brows and glances at his laptop, doing his best to not look curious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re like this moody professor by day, skulking round the department, snapping at everyone. But at night you’re… You have this punk rock alter ego. You’re an undercover rocker. Is that what it is? Don’t you want people to know that you go to gigs? You reckon it’ll spoil your image, or something?”

Moody? _Skulking?_ Did this girl never get a memo on manners? “There’s nothing undercover about it, Miss Potts. Just because I don’t go yelling to the world about the things I like on, I don’t know, _snapchat,_ doesn’t mean I’m embarrassed to _like_ them.”

Bill considers this quietly: possibly the quietest she’s been so far this semester. A few moments go by and she makes no sign of shifting so he can get on with his life, before saying: “For the record, I don’t think you’re actually that moody. You looked really happy on Saturday. I saw you, by the bar, after we spoke.”

He remembers the bar, his happy place, a time where nothing else—not students, not his finances, not River—mattered other than the music, the moment, how he’s glad he’s got one thing in his life that will never change or give up on him. The sun could explode tomorrow and the world could be a nuclear wasteland, but there’d still somehow be music, somewhere. Bill Potts was right about something. He was _happy._

(Maybe the happiness wasn’t just to do with the music, that time.)

He swallows back the rocks in his throat. Coughs. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Bill? To do with the course. If not…”

She takes the hint, pulling her satchel up her shoulder. “Nah. Maybe I’ll catch you at the gig tomorrow.”

He’s got to admire her determination. “Maybe.”

Bill leaves with a smile, her boots squeaking against the wood laminate as she disappears behind the door.

-x-

Bill Potts apparently isn’t the only person interested in the gig coming up on Saturday. He’s about to leave the staff common room in the physics department when Missy corners him, refusing to let him leave unless he indulges her in conversation. Her dark hair is messily styled and her boots come up to her knees.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” she says, her bottom lip jutting out. Oh, great, she’s fucking _sulking._ “Ever since I said I wouldn’t come with you to that gig last weekend. You _know_ I don’t particularly enjoy hanging out with you, just don’t take it out on me.”

He doesn’t let her know that the only reason her messages have been sitting unopened in his inbox is because he’s found someone so much better to text. “I’ve been busy.”

Missy snorts. “You’re not usually too busy for me.”

He rolls his eyes and tries to push past her, but Missy’s having none of it. Her hand prods his shoulder blade, urging a more suitable explanation. “On this occasion, I have been. Can I go now?”

“No. I’m bored. Let’s do something this weekend.”

“I thought you didn’t like hanging out with me?”

“I don’t,” she muses, impossible, “But I’m willing to, this weekend. I hate thinking of you rattling round that flat alone. You could have a go at me about that time I stole your dissertation title back in university. I like it when you do that.”

His friendship (well, he calls it a friendship, but the things they’ve done to each other in the past would desperately scream otherwise) with Missy goes way back to when they were children, old school days in Glasgow then university in London, eventually here. She’ll insist that she’s not following him, but every corner he turns, there she is—wild, dangerous smirk on her face and all the frenzied uncertainty that goes with her borderline sociopathic personality. Missy’s corrosive, burning; sometimes he doubts there’s even a heart underneath all that chaos, she’s so ready to scald everyone she meets. Yet he can’t seem to shake her off, no matter how hard he tries.

Then there’s those moments where he sees a glimmer of the friend he loved so much during childhood and how, miraculously, their bond has become a sort of lifeline. They both lost their parents when they were young. She knows how to feel loss that punctures your lungs, cracks your soul in two. He’s just decided to use that pain differently.

They share a gaze, the product of a mutual lifetime together. Maybe that’s what’s so difficult about Missy. He can see so much trauma in those eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, “I can’t. I have plans.”

She sighs aggressively, rolling her eyes so hard they disappear into the back of her head. Her hand remains in a firm vice round his forearm as he tries to get away, forcing him to a standstill. “What plans? Can I come?”

“It’s another gig. You hate the music I like. You won’t enjoy yourself, even if you do come.”

“True, but I still want to come,” she flutters her eyelashes, “Please? Oh come on, I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t sneak backstage and unplug the amplifier like last time.”

He groans at the memory—Missy is not exactly known for keeping her word, and ruining his life is pretty much her part-time job. Plus, he’s hoping for a few moments alone with Clara. He’s not sure how he’d feel about Missy hanging around, potentially destroying a friendship he’s trying to keep going, just because she feels like it. But she’s Missy, and she always seems to get her own way. “Fine. You can come. If you’re on your best behaviour.”

Missy grins. “Thank you. Oh—and can you be a dear and pick me up? My car is in for service and last time I checked I was still banned from public transport.”

Why doesn’t that surprise him? “Get a taxi?”

Her grimace answers that question—she’s been banned from all the taxi firms across Bristol, too. Not for vomiting on upholstery or refusing to pay her fare, nope, it’s never that easy with Missy. Sometimes all she has to do is open her mouth and she’s out on her rear, once in a layby halfway up the M5.

(And of course, he’s always the one who ends up bailing her out.)

“I’ll be there at nine. If you’re not ready I’m leaving without you.”

She seems to accept this, nodding, but he can’t help but see a motive in this sudden need to do some bonding. Missy rarely does anything out of kindness and friendship, and this nasty feeling leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He shoves his headphones in his ears, scrolls through his iTunes library until he finds _Listen,_ wills the world to rest for a while.

-x-

On Saturday his body feels full of electricity, like he can’t quite sit still with the anticipation of it all; or maybe it’s just nicotine withdrawal. He makes endless cups of tea and tries to think about how the universe keeps expanding, how insignificant everything is. Concepts like that keep him in check. He’s not sure he’d ever be able to live properly if he understood everything about everything.

She texts intermittently throughout the day, finally awake at a reasonable hour. She says she’s looking forward to seeing him again. He’s not sure how to process it—he’s moody and skulking, not someone people actively enjoy meeting up with. He half-smiles, texting back _that’s if you recognise me again._

( _Of course I’ll recognise you. It’s only been a week. Give my memory some credit.)_

Clara doesn’t have time to meet up before the gig— _rockstar schedule, I’m afraid, deal with it_ —so he waits patiently outside Missy’s flat at just before nine, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. An _Oswin and the Oswalds_ tape he made himself is playing from the stereo system and if he closes his eyes he’s almost there, almost right at the front of the stage, almost can see her grin haloed by golden light. Missy’s late, of course. There’s no point on bringing her up on it when she eventually trots out of the front door, in a ridiculous full length indigo dress and her hair more unruly than usual.

“I bloody hate this car,” she hisses as she just manages to squeeze in, gown and all. “You’re earning quite a bit at the moment. Can’t you go in for an upgrade?”

The car in question is a tiny blue Mini he’s owned since the nineties, the leather flaking off the seats and yes, it still has a tape deck and wind-down windows. Its often unreliable and breaks down enough to be worth more as junk, but this car has been with him through everything. Besides, it has charm; he likes winding tapes himself, collating all his favourite songs into one place. Iggy Pop touched this car in Glasgow back in 1993. He’s not going to give away those sorts of memories for a couple of hundred quid.

“If you’re going to insult her, you can get out.” He runs a hand across the dashboard and Missy almost slams her head against it.

“ _Her,_ ” she snorts out of disbelief, “Men and their motors. It’s embarrassing, you know. Probably why you can’t get laid.”

“I was serious when I told you to get out,” he warns. She waves a hand, indicating that she’s done and said her bit. It’s a good job they’re already half way there when she asks if she can change _this god awful tape,_ because opening the door now and letting her fall out into the main road would cost more time than he wants to waste right now.

He’s not been to _The Basement_ many times before because it’s a club literally created for St Luke’s student populace. It’s dark and a bit dingy, the concrete sticking to the soles of his shoes and empty plastic cups littering every available surface. Students are easily impressed and unlikely to complain if alcohol is in the near vicinity, after all. As him and Missy push through throngs of young people they get a few odd looks—people recognising them off campus and assuming this is not the sort of thing they’d be interested in.

And they’re half right. Missy does not make a secret of how much she wants to leave like he’s _forced_ her along with him. He doesn’t hesitate to remind her that she’s here on her own free will. She can leave any time she wants.

“There’s so many _students,_ ” Missy spits, disgusted as a spotty boy drenched in aftershave clumsily pushes past her. He has to resist an eye roll.

“You do realise what a Student’s Union is, don’t you?”—Missy looks at him blankly—“It’s a Union. For students. It’s kind of guaranteed that there will be some about.”

Missy scowls. “You could’ve warned me. I hate students.”

“Missy, you’re a _lecturer._ You see students every single day of your life.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like them,” she prods his shoulder, “I see you every day of my life. Don’t particularly like _you_ either.”

He’s so used to this that it doesn’t remotely bother him, not anymore. “I do _not_ see you every day of my life if I can help it. Now come on.”

She reluctantly follows in his stride, shooting looks at anyone who comes remotely near her like a fucking Rottweiler on high alert. It’s true, he doesn’t particularly like students that much either, or people in general—but at least he knows how to hide it under layers disinterest and low-key charm (or so he likes to think).

The venue is a bit smaller than last weekend so pretty much anywhere is within a few feet of the stage. The _Oswin and the Oswalds_ drumkit sits proudly in the centre, various techies ducking in and out of view as they set up microphones and amplifiers. He wonders what she’s doing right now—if she’s nervous and pacing or cool and confident, high on adrenaline.

She doesn’t strike him as the kind of person who has time for stage fright.

Missy tugs on his arm like a petulant child demanding his attention. “I’m getting a drink. You want anything?”

“Just a coke, thanks.” Missy stands, palm outstretched. “What is it?”

“I’m waiting for you to offer to pay. You’re such a terrible date.”

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his eye roll this time as he goes into his pocket, unfurls a tenner. “This is _not_ a date.”

Missy purses her lips into a triumphant smile. “Whatever you say, dear.”

She says stuff like that purely to piss him off and make him uncomfortable and by now, he shouldn’t find it that difficult just to ignore her. He’s just fuelling her fire. He’s grateful that she’s out of the way for now, even if it’s just for a few minutes. His phone weighs down the pocket in his jeans—he holds it in his palm for a moment before unlocking it and hovering over her name in his contacts list.

_Hey. I’m here._

A reply comes less than ten seconds later. _I’m glad._

-x-

She waltzes onto the stage in ripped skinny jeans and high-heeled boots, a cropped black shirt revealing her midriff, guitar slung over her shoulder. Looking at her, it’s like he’s built that time machine after all; he’s transported back to seven days ago and he’s seeing her for the first time, raw and fresh and incomparable. His heart threatens to burst out his ribcage because fucking _hell,_ there’s no-one like her.

“How are we, St Luke’s?” she asks the crowd, who reply so enthusiastically his ear-drums start to thump. “We’re Oswin and the Oswalds—it’s great to be back in Bristol again.”

The band effortlessly segues into to their first track— _Flatline,_ a loud, bassy number that sets every single one of his blood vessels alight—and this time, they really do catch eyes. She grins into the chorus ( _it really is a shame you’re so two dimensional_ ) and she winks and he shakes his head, mouths _you’re impossible._

What he means is that it’s impossible that I’m stood here, both of us in the same room once again _. I don’t want this night to end, but if it has to, I want to end it with you._

It’s the beginning of something. He’s not sure what yet, but it’s definitely the beginning of something.


End file.
